


Flesh Wound

by monimala



Category: Dallas (TV 2012), Dallas - All TV Series
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Gap Filler, Hate Sex, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filler fic for <i>that</i> missing scene in 3.14, “Endgame” and basically my head canon for what happened. <i>Emma has never loathed anyone as much as she loathes this man.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Flesh Wound

She doesn’t know what’s louder: the click of the door or the blood roaring in her ears. Before, when she was medicated, she never knew fear could have a sound. Everything was muted — even her own heartbeat always seemed so far away — but now, scrubbed and sober of everything except a door being shut and Luis stalking toward her, Emma knows the truth of being able to hear. Her pulse. His ragged breaths. The way he curses her in Spanish. _Idiota. Puta. Chiquita estupida y tonta._ It’s all deafening.

She hugs the wall, hoping she melts into it. That she can become tile and plaster and glue and not feel anything as he cages her between his arms and brings his face too close to hers. “Silly little girl,” he croons. His stubble rasps against her jaw. He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and fury. “Never target a boy when you can aim for a man.”

And there’s no mistaking that Luis is a man. He takes up her entire field of vision. His lower body pins hers in place. He laughs when the sob works its way from her throat and past her lips. “D-don’t,” she listens to herself beg. “D-don’t hurt me.” _Hurt_. Such a stupid, euphemistic word. But she can’t bring herself to say the other one. To even think it.

“Now you have tears?” His thumb traces the dampness on her cheek and he cups her jaw. His fingers leave trails of fire all over her skin. “Now you think you’ll be hurt? Where was that fear with Fernando, Emma? When you kissed him so beautifully?” He grinds his hips into hers. Hard and lewd and without mercy. “You wanted this from him, no? Would’ve fucked him for freedom? Where is that offer for me?”

Her heart slams against her ribs. Her stomach lurches. And she wishes she could look anywhere besides his smug, dark eyes. Even during their first meeting in that warehouse, it was impossible to break from the lock of his gaze. Like looking away from a predator, shattering the moment, and risking having your throat torn out. She thought she was so smart that day…so badass and strong…and now…now…

Sex has always been her weapon. Now he’s holding the gun.

“I hate you.” This is easier to articulate. And anger feels better than terror. “You’re disgusting.” Her hands, paralyzed before, come up and she shoves at his chest. “I would never. I would _never_ —”

She doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Doesn’t get to discover what she might have said. Because he swallows it with a groan. Presses his mouth against hers. Tilts his forehead into hers and whispers, “ _I_ would.”

 _Oh, god._ Two little words are everything. His taste is everything. Rough and spicy and needy. Like he’s the captive, not her. Emma has never loathed anyone as much as she loathes this man. And she’s never wanted anyone as much either. Not anyone. Not anything. He’s worse than any drug she’s ever taken. So, she kisses him back. Biting and sucking and licking into his lips. Forcing them apart so she can draw blood from his tongue.

He takes fistfuls of her dress, shoves it up and out of his way. Her panties are yanked unceremoniously down around her knees, binding her more effectively than rope. Not that she wants to escape now. She can’t. Not until she’s seen this through. Heard him choke out her name. Felt him bottom out inside her.    

He’s thick. Almost too much for her fingers to wrap around as she palms the front of his jeans. Maybe that’s why he grabs her hand and transfers it to his hair. “Hold me,” he says, voice so low and guttural she can barely hear him. “Hold onto me.” And she dives into the long, black hair at the base of his skull, tugging sharply as he undoes his fly and nudges between her legs. He’s as hard as she is wet. It’s impossible and wrong and she will regret this an hour from now. But an hour from now, she just might be free. That’s what else she clings to when the blunt head of his cock slides in. That’s what she prays for when he buries his face against her throat and begins to thrust deep. 

Fear has a sound. So does desperation. So does insanity. It’s her whimpering and keening as he fucks into her. It’s the slap of their hips and the rhythmic thump of her back hitting the wall. It’s him cursing her again and again. _Idiot_. _Slut_. _Foolish little one_. And it’s her chanting, “I hate you” over and over until she hates herself just as much. Worst of all, it’s her orgasm. A low wail of pleasure when he hits just that perfect spot and comes with her, inside her, all over her.

_“Never target a boy when you can aim for a man.”_

Sex has always been her weapon. And if Emma has to shoot herself and take him down with her, so be it.

 

 

\--end--

 

September 27, 2014


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